To compare this beast to the dead thing carrying Shanaera’s burden would be laughable. Even in life, her licorneir was never particularly impressive. While this beast—still living, still breathing,still burning with all the fury of a raging star—is massive. Each hoof could smash the head of a trolde without a second thought, and the great shoulders boast muscle enough to haul this entire citadel across miles, were it only possible to set it on wheels. His coat, once pure white and shining, is stained black. Large, engorged veins bulge from beneath his flesh, and these pulse with blackened blood, not silver. His head is downcast, his eyelids lowered, but flames of dark fire burn from the corners of his eyes.
Compared to the beast, the rider on his back seems almost inconsequential . . . and yet, in any other circumstance, he would be an impressive figure of a man. Tall and muscular, with fine, sharp features and a firm jaw. But it’s the air of sovereignty about him that is most striking, that sense of a man born to rule and utterly confident in that heritage. He is so like Taar, he might be his twin. Only he is alive, not dead.
The rider’s head is bent, like his licorneir’s. They seem to be in deep communion, sharing a song Shanaera cannot perceive. Her un-song does not like it, and shivers so hard in her ruined body that she cannot help backing away, giving the man and his beast as wide a berth as possible. She waits, her back pressed against the wall, still holding the lead of the dead licorneir. “Soon, beloved,” she whispers to the corpse. “Soon now. Have patience.”
Eventually footsteps sound on the stair. Slow, labored footsteps, as though those approaching are bearing a large and awkward burden. Shanaera pushes away from the wall andstraightens, assuming an appropriately submissive expression. While she fully intends to see all her enemies cast down in ruin sooner rather than later, servility serves her immediate purpose.
A Miphato enters the chamber first—a long-faced man with a once-dark beard, turned white from the horrors he’s observed over the years. His face bears no trace of expression or personality. His eyes are those of a man who has gazed into hell itself and realized exactly where his soul is bound. And yet he clings to this world and clings still harder to the master he hopes will save him from his fate. Shanaera does not know this man’s name; why should she bother? Most of Morthiel’s servants don’t last very long. Anecroliphonwields darkness far more dangerous than most mages will dare attempt to summon. That darkness demands a price. Always. Eventually.
Behind the Miphato, two shamblers appear—Licornyn warriors, reborn in festering corpses. These two are fresher than most, harvested from what the troldefolk left behind on the battlefield. Between them they carry a litter on which sits a sorry carcass of humanity. Withered flesh sags with such frailty, it’s a wonder it still clings to the bones. Raw, red tattoos cover every inch of his gray skin, and seeping magic oozes from these marks. The dark spellwork has sustained him long past the natural span of his mortality, but he has put off death for so long now, he looks more dead than the shamblers, more dead even than Taar. Unlike them, however, he is still alive.
The two shamblers set the litter down between Shanaera and the figure on the licorneir in the center of the chamber. The white-bearded Miphato takes his place beside his master, eyes closed, head bowed, fingers and thumbs forming a diamond shape before his breast. A long moment of silence follows.
Then the Miphato speaks. That is, his mouth and lips move, but the voice which emerges does not belong to him: “What have you brought me, Shanaera? Have you found the gods-gifted princess yet?”
Shanaera smiles, addressing the thing on the litter as opposed to the man who spoke. “She is on her way even now, Mage Morthiel. Eagerly running to your embrace.”
“What?” The voice of the ancient mage snaps through his servant’s lips. He sounds positively slavering. “She comes now, you say?”
“Indeed she does, Master. But you might want to prepare yourself. She brings with her a large host of licorneir.”
Though the thing on the litter makes no move, not even the barest twitch of an eyebrow, the eyes of the Miphato standing beside him flare wide. “What? How could you let this happen, Shanaera? Why did you not capture her like I wanted?” Though the Miphato’s voice is naturally deep, it takes on a wheedling, whining tone. “Where is Artoris? I told Artoris to bring her back to me once the witches had healed her!”
“Artoris appears to have abandoned thecause,” Shanaera answers smoothly, her rotten mouth turning up at the corners. “But I am here, Master. And I have brought a likely corpse for your use.” With those words, she whips a knife from her belt and cuts the cords lashing Taar to the licorneir’s back. A single heave, and she pulls him down to the floor in a sickening thud of limbs to lie spread-eagle before the litter. The Miphato leaps back a step, a hand pressed to his mouth, though one would think he would have grown used to dead things by now in his line of work.
The faded eyes of the thing on the litter studies Shanaera’s offering with little interest. “I have no use for another corpse,” he says through his Miphato’s mouth. “I won’t bring him back. It requires more energy than I am willing to expend, not if we are to be set upon by licorneir.”
Beyond the litter, however, the licorneir rider raises his head and opens his eyes. Eyes quick and bright with life as they fix on the bloated face of the carcass lying there on the melted stone floor. He tilts his head as though uncertain about what he sees. Then, abruptly, he dismounts the huge licorneir, shoulders past the white-bearded Miphato, and drops to his knees beside Taar. For a moment he is very still, save for his eyes, which study those features. Features which have been twisted, first by virulium, then by death. But still recognizable.
He looks up, his gaze catching Shanaera’s. “This man,” he says in a deep voice. “Who is he?”
Shanaera grins, displaying all that remain of her decayed teeth.
“Why does he look like Lora?” the Licornyn persists, more urgently.
“Because he isMaelarAshtalora’s son,” she replies. “And yours too,LuinarThalor.”
The Licornyn reels as though struck. Then, gasping for breath, he leaps to his feet and whirls on the desiccated thing lying on the litter. “What is she saying, Morthiel?” he demands. “Is it true? No, it cannot be. My son is a child!”
Morthiel’s ancient eyes turn up to him, simmering with red magic. The white-bearded Miphato coughs nervously then takes a step forward. “We do not concern ourselves with the passage of mere time,” he says in that thin voice which is not his. “We trod the path to immortality.”
But theluinarof Licorna’s hands clench into fists. He turns, stares down at the dead figure of his son. When he speaks, his words rasp painfully in his thickened throat. “Taar? My Taar?” He drops to his knees again, hands shaking as he runs them over his son’s dead body, lingering over the hideous knife wound and the stains of virulium-blackened blood. “I did not know.” He shakes his head again and again, as though he cannot stop. “Taar, I swear, I thought no time had passed! We’ve been working hard, seeking the very source of eternal life. We’re close, so close. Look! We’ve even resurrected the dead. But . . . but it’s not true immortality, not yet.” He drags a rough gasp of air into his lungs. “I didn’t know,” he says again. “I thought there was still plenty oftime. Time to make it up to you and Tassa. To Lora.”
Whipping his head sharply to one side, he looks at Shanaera again. “Where are they? My wife and my daughter? Where are they?”
Shanaera does not answer. She stares at him with mute deadness. Her silence infuriates him, and his pale skin flushes red. He’s on his feet again the next moment, turning on Morthiel, snarling like a wolf. “Bring him back,” he demands. “Bring back my son.”
Here, Shanaera’s smile tilts once more. She knew this would happen, she knew she could count on Thalor to help her.
Morthiel, however, flashes a sidelong glance at his Miphato, who steps hastily forward. “We must prepare for the gods-gifted girl’s arrival. When she comes, we can make everything as it should be. She is the final, missing piece.”
Thalor’s hand shoots out, grabbing the Miphato by the throat. The tendons in his arms strain, and he looks down at Morthiel with the wild face of a desperate man on the very brink of murder. “Bring back my son,” he says, “or I will not open the Rift again.”
The Miphato chokes, squeezing words out through the vicelike grip. “I am already much depleted! I need more power if I am to—”
“Then you’d better pray to whatever god will still receive your damned prayers,” Thalor replies. “Pray you have enough to bring him back. Because otherwise, I will let you die, Morthiel. I will stand here, and I will watch those spells which sustain you simply drift away from your sorry carcass. I will watch your soul be claimed by She who has the right to it.” Still gripping the Miphato tight, hebends over the litter, draws his face within an inch of that wasted old visage. “Do we understand each other? Will you do as I ask?”
The Miphato gags, his face turning blue for lack of air. With a last desperate croak, he manages a, “Yes!”
